


Pulling Rank

by Cranon



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Injury, but it's mild??, but not much of it??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 21:37:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6627454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cranon/pseuds/Cranon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hux makes a bad call. Phasma lets him know.</p><p>(versus-a-blank-paper provided the prompt, "Phasma scares the shit out of Hux." )</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pulling Rank

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks go out to:
> 
> versus-a-blank-page (ao3) for the prompt and inspiration, and  
> @winemomhux (tumblr) for the trooper designations and planet names.
> 
> Thanks y'all! I hope you enjoy it, this is my very first fic! Come find me on tumblr: starwars-trash-hell

Lieutenant Dopheld Mitaka is at a loss.

Normally, at the start of delta shift, the day’s activities are winding down. But now the bridge is buzzing with nervous activity. All comms related to the active mission are still ominously quiet, and the bridge personnel are left to stew in vague anxiety, General Hux included.

Over the past thirty-six minutes of radio silence, Hux has achieved a color usually associated not with humans but with the section of the Corsucant interior design catalog captioned _Off-Whites._ Mitaka is struggling to place the shade. _Chantilly Lace? Almond?_ He’d picked up the catalog out of sheer boredom, on leave, what now feels like aeons ago. _Picket Fence?_

Shifting blank datafeeds around at his station, Mitaka wonders idly what a picket is. He could bring up the catalog on his datapad for reference. With the comms down, there’s really not much else to do.

Hux paces the length of the bridge. The mission should have been simple: neutralize a munitions storage facility on the insignificant planet Dresaik, without attracting attention from the nearby Resistance base. Not a chore, for two transports’ worth of handpicked ‘troopers. But the mission plan included only four minutes of radio silence, and the General is beginning to acknowledge that an inconvenient equipment failure may not be _entirely_ to blame. The two young comm officers nearest to Hux edge a few millimeters away.

 “Override and access emergency channels,” Hux says briskly to Petty Officer Riikka Vanek. “Ours – theirs – anything in the hemisphere.”

Petty Officer Hal Mariq quails as Hux’s gaze snaps across to him. “Sir. All comm traffic in the region is jammed.”

“Impossible,” says Hux, because on that backwater world, it is _literally_ impossible. “Get me the morning’s intelligence report on the Dresaik base.”

“Sir, surveillance on Dresaik has been suspended for the past two days,” Petty Officer Vanek says, grimly staring at Hux’s knees.

Hux grinds his teeth. “ _Explain_.”

“Survey staff designated to that sector were, ah.” Petty Officer Mariq swallows. “Re-allocated. As of two days ago.” 

“And _who_ authorized that re-allocation,” Hux says automatically, but almost before the words are out of his mouth he already knows the answer. He feels sick.

 _Soft Chamois_ , Mitaka thinks, _or perhaps_ _Wall Plaster_. Whatever the color, it’s really not a good look on him.

“Sir. Um.” Petty Officer Vanek shuffles her feet, as if she wants to run. Her peach-fuzz hair is a little mussed. She’s sincerely regretting arriving early to her shift. “You did, sir.”

“ _Very_ well.” Hux inhales loudly. “Right. Hold all channels open. Continuous broadcast. Send a half squadron survey craft and a dozen TIEs along the projected vector.” He’s about to add a terse “And would _someone_ get me the schematics for that base,” when every single emergency channel simultaneously crackles to life. Petty Officer Mariq dives out of the way as Hux leans in to the microphone, spinning the receiver dial.

 “This is Hux. Come in,” he barks.

“We have secured the base.” She requires no introduction. There’s no mistaking that voice.

“You – you have – Captain, your orders were to --”

“We have secured the base. Request pickup at the following coordinates,” Phasma continues smoothly, and rattles off a string of numbers and letters which very definitely do not correspond to the munitions facility. Mitaka blinks. Hux blanches. “Send two transports,” Phasma adds, her voice crackling over the low-quality channel. “I will brief you upon arrival.”

Hux opens his mouth to reply, but the line goes dead.

 

* * *

 

Somehow, even though gamma shift is barely half over, a remarkable number of lower-ranking officers have chosen to take their breaks all at once, and to take them on the bridge. Hux's eyes narrow. He makes a deliberate effort to ignore the loiterers, concentrating instead on his personal comm.

Phasma’s shuttles have docked at the officer-level hangar, and Hux had a ground transport ready to bring them all to the Command medbay, where space has already been prepared. He shouldn’t have been surprised, he thinks, when his inquiry after her well-being goes unanswered. She’ll report in after she stops by Medical with her troopers.

 _Any minute now_ , thinks Mitaka.

In the hallway a droid whirrs, irritated, as it is pushed from the path of a heavy and unmistakable footstep. Mitaka looks up just in time to watch Hux turn the ghastly greenish-grey of a freshly laundered corpse and freeze in place as Captain Phasma steps through the door.

 _“General_.” Silence settles over the bridge, interrupted only by a faint and steady drip. Hux spins on his heel.

“Captain, report to the medbay at once,” he tries to say, or perhaps it’s “Captain, could we speak in private,” or “Captain, can we _please_ not do this on the bridge,” but all that comes out is “ _Captain_ ,” in a faintly strangulated squeak.

He recalls that Phasma didn’t report any personal injury over the comms. Perhaps, Hux thinks hopelessly, that dripping is from something insignificant, but as Phasma paces forward he is forced to note that what’s left of her tattered cloak is soaked in blood. Her armor is still brilliantly shining, at least from the knees up. She’s taken off her helmet to speak to him. Normally Hux would consider this a mark of respect; right now, it is the opposite of a mercy.

“LK-1195. LK-0054.” Phasma does not loom. She requires no such artifice. She simply _is,_ and as she approaches, Hux is conscious that the space she currently occupies is far too small to contain her icy fury.

“VK-4019, VK-0382, VK-1861,” she continues, and stops short, finishing with “RK-3323.” Hux risks a glance down. He regrets it right away, because now he can see that it’s her hand that has been dripping; the blaster shot has passed clean through the flesh there and taken the gauntlet off at the back. The ragged edges of the wound must have instantly cauterized when the shot went through, he thinks, and re-opened as she used her hand in battle, judging by the blood coating her arm. Most of it isn’t hers. Some of it isn’t even red. Hux’s body briefly and wholeheartedly considers feeling ill, but he rallies.

“Captain,” he manages. “Report.”

“After leaving hyperspace, our approach to Dresaik deviated from the projected course. Both transports were shot down without warning, three klicks west of the Resistance base, which possessed long-range shuttlecraft tracking equipment and heavy anti-shuttlecraft weaponry.” She gives him a pointed, searching look. “Of which we were not aware.”

“That is regrettable.” So was his decision to speak, Hux immediately observes. He shuts his mouth and concentrates on breathing quietly.

“LK-1195 and LK-0054 were killed in the crash,” she continues coolly. “Upon landing, we found all emergency channels jammed due to a high-powered disruptor within the Resistance base. Sophisticated equipment of which, I might add, we were also not aware.”

This time, Hux remains silent.

“We entered the base through the west hangar, neutralized defenses, and disabled the disruptor after securing all exits. VK-4019, VK-0382, VK-1861, and RK-3323 were killed in the assault. After securing the base, I was able to remotely lock down the munitions center.”

An entire Resistance base, Hux thinks. Staffed by – what? A hundred? A hundred and fifty? He is abruptly glad Phasma is under his command and then, just as abruptly, unsure that she ever was.

“No survivors?”

She levels her gaze at him. Hux realizes that he should not have asked. “Unfortunately, no.”

Some deeper reflex pulls his shoulders back and Hux stands to attention, steadying himself.  “Captain, your adaptation to unforseen battlefield circumstances is commendable,” he begins, but she stills him with a twitch of one arched eyebrow.

 “Do not patronize me,” she pronounces deliberately. “Let us instead review circumstances surrounding this mission’s failure.” She is now close enough for Hux to count his General’s stripes in his reflection, and he does so, frantically, as though this might bring him solace. It does not.

It seems that while they are already both fully informed, Phasma would like to brief everyone else present on the bridge (a steadily increasing number of petty officers, Hux tries not to note) about the mission as well. “Three standard days ago, I personally filed a request, _General_ , for additional surveys on Dresaik. I deemed double our current frequency of reconnaissance sweeps sufficient to determine the extent of Resistance defenses.” She pauses. “Do you remember this?”

“Yes.”

“And two days ago, in a personal communication, you assured me – twice! – that the appropriate resources had been allocated. You remember this also.”

Hux nods minutely. Of course he does. That morning he had received authorization from the Supreme Leader to integrate his own, improved secondary control center design for Starkiller Base into current construction. He had been – not relieved. Excited. Thrilled, even. Professionally satisfied with the course of events, enough to re-assign an entire wing of survey shuttles to the nearby rock-and-metal world of Saarenta, which Hux was nearly certain could supply what Starkiller needed to complete his additions well ahead of schedule.

Phasma’s own mission was low-risk anyway; sweeps over the Dresaik base had revealed only minor activity for months. He had agreeably waved off her conversation, assuring her that yes, yes, he’d taken care of it. Hux snaps back to reality when Phasma speaks again, eyes glittering. “Explain.”

“Saarenta contains the richest desposits of titanium in this sector,” Hux says hotly. “Their ongoing excavation is extremely time-sensitive, and--”

“ _Gen_ eral,” she says, and somewhere between the first and last syllable of that word, Hux’s heart sinks into his boots. “You lied. To me.”

He feels the prickling, uneasy sensation of being observed: the entire bridge staff collectively pretending not to listen, and doing a poor job of it. _Anywhere,_ Hux thinks. _Anywhere but here._ But at this point the situation is far beyond salvageable.

“I understand that your desire to re-prioritize resources for your _pet project_ resulted in these losses,” she says, with utter calm. It would be easier, he thinks, if she snarled the words, or hissed them, poisonously. It’s what he would have done. But Phasma doesn’t even have the decency to sound insulted: she lets the crushing weight of his indiscretions speak for itself. “For which I hold you personally accountable.”

Six of the Order’s best, Hux thinks. Hardly a tragedy. Six troopers, among a ship of thousands. “ _Captain_ , compared to the benefit for Starkiller--”

“Beside the point.” She is implacable, and implacably terrifying.

Hux grasps blindly and throws down his last card. “The Supreme Leader--”

“I.” Without moving, Phasma is suddenly closer. “Don’t. Care.” She could lay him out, Hux realizes. He's seen her do it in the 'trooper training rooms. She could probably lift him in one armored hand and fling him across the bridge and it would still be more than he deserved, kinder than the sentences Hux hands down to incompetent subordinates.

“ _Captain_.” Hux swallows. His fight-or-flight instinct has made its preference clear. “I… _acknowledge_ the oversight. Do trust that I, too, regret this loss of the Order’s resources--”

Momentarily, almost imperceptibly, her features shift.

“People,” Hux corrects himself, too slow. “The loss of these people.”

“No. Not because they were people.” Her voice has now dropped so low that everyone on the bridge, Hux included, is leaning in with bated breath. “ _Because they were_ _mine_.”

There’s a sound of leather creaking. His gloves. No, his boots. Hux is distantly aware that he’s taken a step backwards.

“I trust we will experience no more oversights of this nature. Good day, _General_ ,” she says, and snaps off a salute. Blood spatters. Hux feels the hot droplets speckle his face and collar. Phasma turns in a whirl of tattered cloak and, parting the frozen bridge staff like a battleship, strides from the bridge. Her footsteps fade down the hallway into silence.

Around Hux, movement slowly resumes: the tap of fingertips on holopads, soft murmurs of techs into their headsets, the intermittent whine of a maintenance droid. The command staff bends back to their work, eyes averted, as though they haven’t all just witnessed a galactic-scale dressing-down. The officers on break filter rapidly back to their posts.

Hux waits a full two minutes before he dares to move. He slips his hands into the greatcoat’s heavy sleeves and shudders. His collar clings to his neck, damp with cold sweat.

 _Rustic Lye_ , thinks Mitaka, and fires off a message on his datapad. _That’s exactly the one_.

 

* * *

 

The wine is excellent, a dry, bold Corsucant red. It would rival anything from the General’s private stores. It _is_ from the General’s private stores, in fact – a tidbit proclaimed by the hand-written tag that arrived alongside the dusty bottle. 

“' _Captain_ ,’” she reads, trying not to giggle. “’Respectfully request a full debrief of Dresaik mission, and review of mission objective determination and planning procedures for the future-’ D’you think he had a droid ghost-write this? ‘—at 0800 tomorrow. I regret the inconvenience to your schedule. Sincerely, Hux.’” She taps the open bottle and smiles sweetly. “And I only had to ignore him on the comm six times!”

“Command’s going to be talking about this for weeks.” Mitaka reaches over to pour the wine. “I’m just glad the General survived,” he admits.

Phasma laughs again. “I thought you might enjoy watching that.”

Mitaka offers her a glass. Now that it’s had a chance to breathe, the wine is at its best, and she hardly misses their usual Thursday night Scotch.

“You should have seen his face _,”_ Mitaka tells her. “When you first arrived.”

“I was a bit busy _re-allocating_ the pack of medical droids that tailed me all the way up to the bridge.”  She’d stormed through them again on the way out, striding instead to the lower levels of the Finalizer, waiting until she reached the Stormtroopers’ medbay to strip out of her armor and let a stuttering young medical officer set the bones in her hand and bandage the wound. She hadn’t bothered requisitioning painkillers. The wait time would have been atrocious anyway.

“Never fear. I took a holo.” Mitaka holds up his datapad.

Her smile turns wicked. “My _dear_.” She sips the wine. “Oh, it’s excellent.”

“Of course. He picked the right day to feel apologetic.” Mitaka is referring to the routine that’s developed between them, their Thursday custom – drinks, gossip, making the most of the few precious hours where their schedules overlap. They both treasure these evenings. “It’s always good to see you back.”

She pouts. “Didn’t you worry?”

“About you? Never.” Mitaka sips the wine slowly, savoring it. “Not until the day you face down the entire Order. Then I might consider it.”

“You’re a _dear_.” Phasma laughs again: a beautiful, silvery sound, a privilege to hear. She pauses a moment, pondering. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever receive a full apology,” she says.

“I don’t think so. But I _do_ think that you’ve given him something he’ll remember for a long time.”

“You’re very right, _Lieutenant_.” Phasma moves to sit beside him, toeing off her uniform casual shoes and lounging backwards. The couch is standard First Order-issue, regulation size, and she crowds him. It doesn’t matter. They’re used to it.

“After all,” she purrs, “rank isn’t everything.” 

**Author's Note:**

> If you had a favorite / least favorite sentence please let me know! I want to make more content y'all will enjoy, and improvement cannot happen without feedback :)


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